


Son & Heir of Nothing In Particular

by MontagueBitch (porcia_catonis)



Category: Henry IV Part 1 - Shakespeare
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Family, Angst, F/M, Gen, Guilt, Knights - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-01
Updated: 2017-09-01
Packaged: 2018-12-22 07:54:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11963025
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/porcia_catonis/pseuds/MontagueBitch
Summary: Written for the Histories Ficaton based on this prompt: 'What if Hotspur had been Henry IV's son rather than Northumberland's' or some such.The day he is crowned Prince of Wales, he is shaking.





	Son & Heir of Nothing In Particular

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Gileonnen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gileonnen/gifts).



The day he is crowned Prince of Wales, he is shaking.  An hour after the hall has cleared and the title has been set, and he is still sickly pale, and faraway.  A lord asks his father if something is wrong with the boy, and Henry can only wish he knew the half of it.  His mouth is barely open when King Henry IV answers.

"Of course not, it's his nerves, nothing more.  It's a heavy weight to be placed on anyone's shoulders.  He'll be fit again soon," he finishes with a look, half fatherly concern, half authority.  It hits him like a slap.  Harry feels ill, wants to run away into the forest and never be seen, to fight his way out of here, to be someone other than Harry for a while.   The lord passes and he's got a chance to speak at last.

"That wasn't true, what you said."  He is plain of speech, bare and honest as he has ever been.  It's admirable, some have said, in a soldier; and a soldier he is, shall be until he dies.  Part of a man never leaves the field.  "You know I've never flinched away from bearing heavy loads, father, or once tried to run from duty."  His brows are knit, and his hands, balled into fists, are white-knuckled as the fleshy pads are turning scarlet from the pain of his nails digging into them.  That ache keeps him grounded, reminds him he's alive.  

Bolingbroke--no, the King--is given pause, chin resting on his fingertips as he regards his son, surveying, as though he doesn't know what to do with him.  He doesn't, but Hotspur is the only one between the two of them who can admit that.  "Then why, answer me, do you look so pale?"  He is pleading, and Harry can see that he's trying.

"I haven't been myself at all, father.  It's nothing more than that."  He bites his lip, and bites back so many things a good son and heir does not do.  He grinds out a request for leave to retire, and it is granted with a sigh.  

"Wait,"  He's called back, just for a moment.

"Father?"

"I have every faith in you."

A pause, and a weak smile.  "I thank you, Father."  That means more to him than he can express in human language.

He is a plain, honest man, and he does not like to lie.  There are some things, however, that cannot be uttered aloud to his father.  He will not make him bear the knowledge that his affliction came from blood his father had bade him spill.  The part of him that can bear thoughts that don't belong to a loyal son, wish that the crown had never touched Bolingbroke's head.  He does not always know if it is his guilt, or his disloyalty that pains him more.  

He has not slept more than an hour in the past two days; exhaustion wars with restlessness, and he is reading the same lines over and over again.  His wife knocks twice at the door and he shuts it with a start as she comes in.   "My lord?  The hour is late, are you well?"  She rests a hands, halting and quiet, on his shoulder.  

Oh, Kate, sweet honey Kate.  She had been his lady since both were young, and now she'll be set on a throne one day.  Queen Katherine will be the only good thing, he thinks at his worst, to come from this pool of blood he's stepped in.  Looking at her in the crowd had been his one grounding light throughout the coronation, and even now, as he wades through a murky hell of sleepless ailment, she makes his heart lurch.  "A prince must be well, Kate."  His jaw is set, and he rubs his temples, and it takes away some of the tension that squeezes his soul.

"There is no _must_ to this, Harry.  For a fortnight, now, you've been all but self-imprisoned."  She's imploring and he sighs, and turns away.  That's a truth he is not ready to face.  "Kings, and emperors, and princes are men, and may be ill."  She wheels around and follows him, not letting herself be ignored.  "Please, just tell me what it is.  There's nothing in the world I wouldn't do, if you would only tell me."

He swallows, and shifts in his seat, halting.  "I have no words for you!"  It comes out too harsh, and he sees her eyes, for a moment widen, and the hurt cross her face.  

This, he realizes quickly, what he has done.  "Kate, I have no ailment--nothing new, and nothing you can help."  He swallows.  "What's tormented me has been there since corruptors of kings past were put to death.  It's mine to bear, and I am not so weak to take aid."  The words tear from his throat, and his heart pounds in his own ears as e grips the seat as though it might pull him apart.

Kate's hand eases down his arm, and she has been emboldened again.  "Harry, no one stone holds up a castle, and even an oak will break under pressure.  Don't lock yourself away until you snap, I can't bear it."  Her hand falls from his arm as she takes one of his in both of hers, and Hotspur finds himself choked under the weight of emotion coming from either him, or her, or both of them.  

It's an hour long before he's persuaded to come to her bed, and its in her embrace he manages to sleep the night mostly undisturbed.

- 

The King is dead.  Hotspur does not cry; soldiers do not cry.  He does not know if this man had lived the life of a good one, or whether he carried his guilt with him in his sleep, but he is the only father Hotspur has known, has taught him how to navigate the world of politics, has raised him to be capable.  He feels a hole hollowed out in his chest.  

His children do cry, when they see their grandfather, still as the stones the walk on.  That, Hotspur feels.  For all his dignity as a soldier, fierce and untouchable, he has never had it in him to sit idly by while his little ones cry.  His wife pats their backs, and promises them that the King is with God, and that he feels no pain at all, that he will watch over them from somewhere else.

Hotspur is crowned not long after, and Kate is made his queen.  The crown on his head feels heavy, but no moreso than he has expected.  He has lived his life bearing weight, and it takes the greatest one in England to make him realize he has build up muscle in the face of it.


End file.
